


heavy heart, a love apart

by keptein



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Getting Back Together, M/M, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5168537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keptein/pseuds/keptein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(802): Our sex has gotten so much better since we broke up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heavy heart, a love apart

**Author's Note:**

> FINALLY.. my bokuaka anthem. my bokuaka break-up anthem. (don't worry; they get back together.) thanks a bunch to aj, bishop and sarah for looking it over for me.  
>  **content warning:** bokuto has a brief panic attack. it's not detailed at all, but if you'd like to skip it, stop reading from 'He stares up at the ceiling of what he used to have' and start reading again from '"'m sorry," he mumbles'.  
>  the title is from slow skies' _close_.

“Aah - come on, Keiji, fuck, just - _that’s it_ , come on -”

“Koutarou,” Keiji gasps, “Koutarou -”

“Yeah, yeah, just - fucking -”

*

Koutarou shuts the door carelessly behind him, shoulders drawing up when the slam rings through the apartment. He stumbles through the kitchen in the dark, his hip hitting the table and making him swear. A light clicks on in the living room, and he gives up all pretense of being quiet, wandering into the room.

“Bokuto?” Kuroo is bleary-eyed, arms crossed over the worn rock band t-shirt he sleeps in. “It’s three am.”

“Sorry,” Koutarou says. He throws himself on the couch and covers his eyes with a hand, shielding them from the light. “I was out.”

“Where were you?”

Koutarou doesn’t answer, and Kuroo sighs.

“Great. Good night,” he says. “Do you want me to turn the light off?”

“Yeah.”

The light goes out again, and Koutarou’s left in darkness, curling up on the couch he’s been sleeping on lately, licking his lips to taste the remnants of Keiji still lingering.

*

In the harsh morning light, Kuroo’s judging look is provided in high-resolution, sitting across from him at the kitchen table. “Shut up,” Koutarou tells him, poking at his eggs, chin resting in his hand. The marks on his back ache, the good kind of pain that stays with him for days, flaring to life every time he twists.

“I didn’t say anything,” Kuroo says. “But know that my silence is deliberate, and that I’m judging all your life choices.”

“Thanks,” Koutarou says sarcastically, and Kuroo kicks him under the table.

“What are you gonna do?”

Koutarou finally tilts his head up to look at him, eyes half-lidded. “I have no idea,” he says. “He lets me fuck him. It’s better than before. That’s all I need.”

“Bullshit,” Kuroo says, but he doesn’t push him further.

Koutarou’s eggs wobble on his plate, as if they’re taunting him for his own indecision. He eats them in retaliation.

*

There’s a wedding shop between Kuroo’s place and Koutarou’s job.

He doesn’t walk down that street anymore.

*

_I think we should see other people._

*

The littlest things remind him of Keiji. At work, his colleague flips her spoon when she eats yoghurt at work, like Keiji would. Koutarou works at a kindergarten, and one of the kids has a cowlick, just like the one Keiji used to get on the way back from tournaments in high school, falling asleep on the bus with his hair still wet.

Sometimes he thinks he hears his voice on the street, and he always turns to check.

Keiji isn’t dead, but sometimes it feels terrifyingly close, and Koutarou ends up texting him, asking to come over and promising that this time, _this time_  he’ll take his box of stuff with him when he leaves.

(He ends the night with Keiji between his legs, pressing into him so forcefully that Koutarou can pretend this is how he asks him to stay, that this is how Keiji shows him he regrets telling him to leave.

He goes back to Kuroo’s before morning, and the box stays behind.)

*

“I’m guessing you don’t want to come out tonight,” Kuroo says, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt as he comes in and sits down on the couch, next to Koutarou.

“Not really feeling it,” Koutarou replies, shaking his head.

“Getting old? They do say it’s all downhill after twenty-five,” Kuroo says innocently, and Koutarou smacks him without energy.

“I could still drink you under the table. And in a couple of weeks you’ll be twenty-five too, you know.”

“I know,” Kuroo says. He stands up, finishing the last of the buttons. “You’re coming out for that, by the way. No excuses. I’m letting you wallow now, but you’re coming out with us on Saturday.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Koutarou says. He passes the test, because after a brief pause Kuroo nods, satisfied. The mannerism reminds Koutarou of Keiji. He wonders if Kuroo has seen him since they broke up. They used to be good friends, but you’re supposed to pick sides in a break-up. Keiji got the apartment; Koutarou got Kuroo. It seems fair enough.

Kuroo’s keys jangle as he throws them from hand to hand. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll be back later, don’t get snot on my couch.” He smirks at Koutarou, who narrows his eyes.

“Have a good time,” he says instead of taking the bait, and Kuroo nods, gives him a little wave before he shuts the door behind him.

He’s alone.

He was rarely alone before - Keiji would always be around, or he’d get Koutarou to come with him on his errands. It feels foreign now, after so long, the silence thick and heavy on his ears, and he turns on the TV, turns the volume down to a murmur. The noise washes over him in waves and he sinks back, eyes half-shut as he stares at the flickering images.

One of the actors looks like Keiji.

Koutarou lies down, turning his back to the screen.

*

_I just don’t think this is healthy for either of us._

*

When Koutarou comes home from work, he can hear talking inside the apartment. He stops just outside the door, ear pushed against it to hear who Kuroo’s brought, and whether he should crash at Komi’s for the night so he doesn’t interrupt anything.

“I don’t know,” Kuroo is saying loudly, agitated. “Sounds to me like you’re both making mistakes.”

There’s a pause, and Koutarou realizes he’s on the phone. He brings his borrowed key out to unlock the door, feeling awkward about loitering in Kuroo’s hallway; but just before he opens the door, Kuroo starts speaking again.

“I’ll come pick it up tomorrow,” he says. “I don’t think-- oh, hey, he’s home, gotta go,” and hangs up immediately.

“Who was that?” Koutarou asks, finally letting himself in.

Kuroo hesitates, and Koutarou narrows his eyes. “Kenma?” he tries. “Yeah, it was Kenma.”

He tries to move away, but Koutarou stands in front of him, staring him down. They've been here before, and Koutarou usually ends up backing down, but he won't this time - Kuroo seems to realize it too, conceding the point.

“Fine,” he sighs. “It was Akaashi. I needed to talk to him about Saturday. He told me to tell you to come pick up your stuff or he’s leaving it in the street.”

“I’ve been going to pick it up,” Koutarou protests.

“I _know_ , it’s not exactly working out,” Kuroo says. “That’s why I said I could go.”

Koutarou goes over to the sink, fills his mouth with water and spits it back out. “Fuck Keiji,” he says, suddenly and vehemently, loud in the silence. “Fuck him.”

“That’s the spirit,” Kuroo says, and squeezes his arm before he goes to his room. “Except, you know, don’t!” he yells over his shoulder, and Koutarou lets out some kind of laugh, still bent over the sink.

*

_It’s not your fault._

*

Then it’s Saturday, and they’re drinking.

Kuroo’s invited many people, more people than can fit in his apartment, and Koutarou stands in the kitchen with Komi, handing out beers to everyone who passes through. Komi’s restless, clearly itching to ask about Keiji, but Koutarou is just tired. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t even want to think about it, and for every beer he gives out, he puts one away himself.

“But did he say _why_ ,” Komi says in a burst of breath, worry contorting his brow. “I mean, it’s Akaashi, he always has a reason -”

“Komiyan,” Koutarou says, and the old nickname shuts Komi up, making him hide behind his beer. Koutarou sighs, and after a pause he speaks, almost lost in the general murmur of the party. “I don’t know. I didn’t get what he was saying.”

“It’s Akaashi,” Komi insists again. “You guys were together _forever_ , and you always knew him best out of all of us!”

“Guess I don’t know him as well as I thought I did,” Koutarou says sharply, loud enough that it echoes in the small kitchen. Komi gapes a little before he shuts his mouth, looking embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and all Koutarou can hear is Keiji saying it, standing in the doorway and waiting for Koutarou to leave. _I’m sorry._

He sighs and takes a drink instead of replying. The door to the kitchen opens and Kenma walks in, pushing his hair behind his ear and looking between them.

“Hey,” Koutarou says. “You want a beer?”

Kenma shakes his head. “Drinking games in the living room, then we’re leaving for the bar,” he says flatly. “Kuroo’s demanding your presence.”

“We’ll be right there,” Koutarou says, waving his bottle. Kenma nods and exits again, and Koutarou chugs the last of the beer, looking sideways at Komi. “We’re done, right?”

“Yeah,” Komi says after a pause, still frowning. “We’re done.”

Flash forward four hours - they’ve moved from Kuroo’s apartment to the bar, and Koutarou is chanting for Kuroo to drink, laughing with it. They’re a crowd gathered around the birthday boy, and Koutarou’s leaning on one of Kuroo’s work friends, too drunk to worry about personal space. The bar is perfect for a mid-twenties mistake, taking the shape of Kuroo’s glass as it slowly but surely empties.

He places it on the bar, letting out a satisfied sigh, and Koutarou hollers, leaning forward to be the first to pat him on the back. “Excellent work, excellent work,” he slurs. “A true champion.”

Kuroo laughs, burps and laughs harder. “This is good, this is a good night. I told you it was gonna be a good night!”

“Never should’ve doubted you,” Koutarou says, and Kuroo bumps their shoulders together. It makes Koutarou stumble into Komi, who’s still here, bonding with a sober-looking Kenma.

“Heey,” Komi says, trying to support him. “You’ve had a lot to drink, huh, Bokkun?”

“Not enough,” Koutarou replies immediately. “Hey, remember when we-- with Keiji, in high school, at parties. Drinking games.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Komi looks at Kenma. “This might not be the best topic--”

“That was awesome,” Koutarou says loudly, interrupting him. “Those were the days! Kuroo, where are you? High school, am I right?”

“You’re right!” Kuroo yells from somewhere else in the bar.

“We did so much cool shit, and everything was so _easy_.” Koutarou leans close, as if to whisper a secret, and Komi sways under the weight. “I miss it a lot.”

Komi is quiet for a long time, so long Koutarou almost whispers it again. “I do, too,” he says finally. “Hey, Bokuto, I think you should go back to Kuroo’s, sleep it off.”

“No,” Koutarou tells him, shaking his head so hard it hurts. “No, no way. I’m staying right here.”

“Everyone, we’re being thrown out,” Kuroo yells, laughing. “Time to chug, ‘cause you can’t exhibit - wait, what is it? Tell me the word again. Right - _exit_ the premises with that!”

Komi looks at Koutarou. Koutarou looks at him. “I’m not going home,” he says defiantly. It takes him three tries to stand up.

“I’m not your keeper,” Komi says, looking uncomfortable. “Just be careful, please?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

*

_I've been thinking about this for a while._

*

His key still works. It’s hard work pressing it in, and it takes him one, two, three attempts, but he manages, and the door unlocks with a soft, familiar click, creaking open. The darkness invites him further in.

It's the smell that hits him first. The soap that Keiji uses to wash the hardwood floors, the old chair that Koutarou got off a yard sale when they first moved in, the air freshener that always reminded him of a dentist’s office until suddenly, it was just the smell of home.

Keiji’s voice rings out sharply in the darkness. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” Koutarou says quickly. His tongue feels too big for his mouth and he can’t stop smelling, inhaling deeply. “It’s just me.”

The light clicks on, and Koutarou blinks, adjusting. Keiji stands against the door of the hallway, frowning at him, his sleeping pants long and worn and so familiar that Koutarou’s jaw aches with the pressure of clenching it shut. “You’re drunk,” Keiji states. He looks tired.

“I was out and I miss you,” Koutarou says, all in a rush. “I miss you.”

Keiji sighs, one long, slow exhalation of breath. "You can't just come stumbling in here," he says instead of acknowledging Koutarou's words. He steps towards the kitchen, turns the tap on and runs a cloth under it, before handing the cloth to Koutarou. "Wipe your face."

Koutarou does, feeling lost and hurt and lonely. He remembers ripping up old towels to make more cloths when they were struggling and Keiji mentioned needing more, off-hand - the one he's holding in his hand is new, though, and rough on his skin. It wipes away tears he hadn't noticed.

"Can you get home?"

He shakes his head. "Can I - just for one night," Koutarou pleads, "let me stay." Keiji starts to shake his head, so he hurries to continue, to find the magic words that will plaster this wound for a night, or even just a moment. "I'll leave the key, I'll take my stuff tomorrow, I promise."

Keiji pauses for a second that stretches, so quiet it comes full circle and becomes audible, pressing against Koutarou's ear. "Fine," he says finally and Koutarou sighs out, relieved. "Just for tonight."

Koutarou nods and nods again, leaving the damp cloth on the dresser and following him, aching to feel those soft pajama pants under his hands, run his fingers over the fabric with the clarity he only has around Keiji, lost and forgotten in the rubble of their relationship.

Keiji leads him to their room - his room - and gets into bed without further ado. Koutarou's so grateful he can barely speak as he steps out of his jeans, takes his shirt off and pushes in next to him. The warmth from knowing Keiji is only centimeters away is better than any skin on skin contact could ever be.

He stares up at the ceiling of what he used to have, and it's like one of those moments he used to have as a kid, where everything was so good and bad and overwhelming all at once, the world too big to fit into the little he could take in. It feels like that now, and he takes a shaky breath, exhaling quickly.

"Calm down," Keiji murmurs from next to him, his back to Koutarou.

"I can't," Koutarou gets out between breaths. "It's, Keiji, _why_ -"

Keiji turns around with a noise of frustration and pushes himself up on one arm, taking Koutarou's hand and pushing it against his naked chest. "Breathe with me," he demands, and Koutarou follows the even rhythm with stuttering half-breaths, eventually calming down. He takes his hand away, instead wrapping it around Keiji's chest as he curls into him, breathing finally steady.

"'m sorry," he mumbles. There's a hand in his hair, stroking soft and familiar.

"It's fine."

"Is this why--?"

"No," Keiji says honestly. "No, it's not."

There's silence after that. Koutarou mumbles things, drunk things that only Keiji's collarbone deserves to hear, confessions so vague and slow to leave his mouth that he doesn't even know if they're true or not.

They don't have sex, but Keiji breathes evenly against his hair all night while he sleeps, and that's almost as good.

In the morning, Koutarou finally takes the damn box.

*

_Do you understand?_

*

Kuroo starts life as a twenty-five year old in the same way Koutarou did, before everything went to hell; happily and easily, not dragged down by the dark cloud hovering around the apartment.

In time too, that cloud dissipates in stuttering half-steps - two steps forward, one step back. This is the best way to say it: it’s not fun. This is the worst way to say it: it hurts like hell, like an afterthought that never manages to become _after_ , instead stays just a thought.

But if there’s one thing Koutarou has learned, it’s that you can only revel in self-pity for so long before people get sick of you, and one early spring evening, he takes a deep breath of hopeful, fresh air and announces, “I’m over it.”

“Really?” Kuroo asks. He’s sitting beside him, staring out at the street, and his side-eye is curious, but not damning. Their feet dangle out from the railing of the balcony, Koutarou bouncing his leg.

“Yep.”

“Well,” Kuroo sighs, and Koutarou decides not to hear the disbelieving edge in it. “I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Does this mean you’re moving out, huh?”

"'Course," Koutarou says. "Your place kills my vibe, you know that."

"What vibe," Kuroo says, and laughs when Koutarou shoves at him. "I'm happy for you, though. You know what? This feels like a cause for celebration."

"Kuroo," Koutarou protests, laughing, but he doesn't stop him when Kuroo goes inside to get them a couple of beers, and comes back out on the balcony to hand Koutarou one. He takes it, the beer one part olive branch and two parts hope for something better, and the glass bottles clink together in the evening air before they drink.

Later, when they’re both quiet and heavy with resolution, Koutarou tastes his lips and speaks again. “I still miss him, though.”

“That’s alright,” Kuroo says easily. “Would be weird if you didn’t, wouldn’t it?”

“It feels like - you know when everyone’s at a party but you, and you have a good reason not to be there, but it still hurts knowing they’re having a good time without you, you know?”

“Yeah, but Akaashi’s a person, not a party.”

“He _used_ to be a party,” Koutarou sighs. “Only party I ever wanted to attend.”

“Alright, alright, this is already too much information,” Kuroo says, waving his hands. “I’m stopping this conversation right here.”

Koutarou lies back, barely fitting on the tiny balcony, and sighs, staring up at the stars. “I miss him,” he tells them, voice low like he’s sharing a secret.

This time, Kuroo is quiet. After a long moment he stands up, patting Koutarou’s stomach on the way. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go inside. It’s freezing.”

*

Slowly, the air gets warmer and the sunlight stays longer, the vestiges of winter finally melting away in the face of spring and summer and _sun_ , Koutarou’s favourite part of the year. His new place is tiny, but affordable, and living alone is fun at first. There’s no one to yell at him for not doing the dishes, or leaving gel all over the bathroom mirror; but there’s also no one to eat dinner with, or talk to, or bother when he’s feeling lonely.

There’s no one, really, and that’s new.

He visits his parents a lot.

*

“Hey, Bokuto,” Takeshita asks, when they’re locking up a late Tuesday night. “Are you free next Friday?”

“You know me,” Koutarou says cheerfully, looking up at the evening sun and then back at Takeshita, “I don’t make plans, I’ve - ”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve embraced the life of a free wind since you broke up,” Takeshita says before Koutarou can. “How is that treating you?”

Koutarou locks the fence and shrugs - the taste in his mouth isn’t as acrid now as it would’ve been two, three months ago. “Fine.”

“Because I have a friend who’s throwing together a goukon,” Takeshita says. “She wants a big one, so we have a couple of spots open. Are you interested?”

“A goukon?”

“Yeah. You like hanging out in izakayas, don't you?”

“I do,” Koutarou says consideringly, the words rolling off his tongue. “Alright. I’ll come.”

Takeshita smiles. “Thanks,” he says. “I owe you.”

“Buy me a beer and invite some pretty girls,” Koutarou says, grinning, “we’re more than even. I need something to get me out of my slump anyway, right?”

“Right,” Takeshita says after a pause.

*

Move forward two weeks and Koutarou's standing in an izakaya, cursing himself to heaven and back for never insisting on a Facebook invite. Instead he was lured along by the promise of cheap alcohol and pretty chicks, and never bothered to find out if anyone else he knew was going to be there. Then he would've been warned, not caught with his pants down like the complete _fucking_ fool he is, and with his head pounding hard and visceral at the first glimpse of Keiji.

How _dare_ he, is the first thing he thinks. How dare he exist again where Koutarou can see him, come back so suddenly, quiet and familiar as if he’d never left - except nothing could ever be quiet with the two of them.

So Koutarou does the only thing he can do; he sets aside the white-hot rage in his chest, swallows the jagged rock in his throat, greets Takeshita and buys himself a well-deserved beer. He’s here to chat up girls, maybe even get laid, and Keiji is sitting far away, too far for Koutarou to know if he still smells like home.

Their eyes meet once, a stolen second, a half-step that makes Koutarou’s heart lose its rhythm, but then he wrenches his gaze away. He drinks his beer. He doesn’t look over again.

He doesn’t try to smell Keiji over the resident grease and alcohol-soaked air of the izakaya.

Instead, he gets to know the woman next to him. She works in a call centre, and her hair is light brown, and she’s nice, but not distracting enough to make Koutarou forget the shadow at the end of the table. No one would be.

*

It takes five beers, three hours and seven times hearing Keiji’s polite laugh before Koutarou snaps. He stands up abruptly and looks at Keiji for the second time that night. “Akaashi,” he calls, voice steady. “Outside?”

There’s a moment of silence, surprise and anticipation rising thick in the air, and Koutarou thinks he won’t agree - but then Keiji nods, smoothes down his shirt and stands up, following Koutarou out the door without a word.

There’s an alley behind the izakaya, narrow and empty, and Koutarou turns on Keiji the moment they’re alone. “What the fuck do you have to say for yourself?” he demands, loud and harsh. Yelling at Keiji is a terrible idea. He remembers that much, remembers how he shuts down and becomes mean and biting, but right now that’s what he _wants_ , wants to see Keiji ugly and hateful, wants to finally let go of everything they could be, everything they had.

“I’m sorry,” Keiji says, managing to sound both spiteful and sincere. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“What is your _deal_ ,” Koutarou says, incensed, “how dare you come back _now_ -”

“How dare I?” Keiji interrupts sharply, eyes hard and dark as flint. “You don’t own this izakaya, Bokuto.”

The sound of his name out of that treacherous, awful, gorgeous mouth makes Koutarou’s heart pound, makes his nails leave deep crescent marks in his palms.

“You should’ve left!” he shouts. “You left then, so have some fucking decency and do it again!”

Keiji takes a step back, something broken and horrible crawling over his face, but Koutarou is too angry for sympathy. “I didn’t come here to be yelled at,” he says finally, voice stiff like wood. “If you’re so upset by me being here, I’ll just leave.”

“ _No_ ,” Koutarou says before he can think, because this isn’t how it’s supposed to go down - where’s the _fight_ , why is Keiji retreating like a wounded animal instead of baring his teeth like he used to? “Akaashi, what are you doing?”

“I’m doing what’s best,” Keiji bites out, eyes burning, and Koutarou’s spoiling for a fight, so eager the words jumble in his throat.

“What’s _best_?” he repeats, voice loud and harsh. “When did you ever know what’s best for me?”

Keiji jerks back. “ _Always_!” he shouts back, and there it is. Koutarou’s elated and terrified, his heart pounding hard in his chest, and when did Keiji get so close? “Someone had to - to intervene, it wasn’t _healthy_ , Koutarou, and fuck you for implying that I -”

He doesn’t notice the slip, too lost in his anger, but it scratches at Koutarou’s ear drums, sends a shiver down his spine. Keiji’s mouth is still moving, words spilling out. He needs to shut him up, and he can only think of two ways to do it -

Punching him would be kinder, Koutarou thinks, and hauls Keiji close for a sloppy, bruising kiss. “Just shut - the fuck - up,” he presses out between kisses, one hand fisted in Keiji’s hair and the other on his waist. Keiji’s come up to grip his biceps, but he’s not pushing him away, he’s kissing him back, just as hot and wet and wanting.

“ _You_ \- shut up,” Keiji snarls back, kisses quick and angry, and Koutarou pushes him against the back wall of the izakaya, pressing them together bruisingly tight. Keiji moans, frustrated and already tinged with arousal, and the sound makes Koutarou do it again and again.

Finally Keiji wrenches away from the biting kisses, mouth red and slack. “We’re on the street,” he pants, “and -”

“Don’t go,” Koutarou says quickly, angrily, kissing him again, staying close enough to breathe against his mouth when they part. “Don’t go.”

Keiji pauses. When he speaks, his voice is low - an intimate interval, a break from the nails and the anger. “I’m not leaving. There’s a hotel.”

“Yeah,” Koutarou says after a second, his brain sex-slow and beer-hazy. “Yeah, _yes_ , let’s do this, come on, oh, fuck..”

They walk to the hotel together, air so tense it’s electric, shocking Koutarou on every inhale. He keeps waiting for something; sobriety, or for Keiji to change his mind.

They arrive at the hotel before either happens. Koutarou pays for the room, sticks his money blindly in the direction of the receptionist. As soon as the door shuts behind them, Keiji’s on him, kissing him hard, pushing him against the door and biting his lip so hard Koutarou thinks it might break.

Koutarou turns them around after a second, hands going to Keiji’s ass and lifting him up to hold him up against the wall, biting at his throat - Keiji moans and arches, pulling at Koutarou’s hair. “We’re doing this on the _bed_ -” he grinds out, panting, “we’re not animals, Koutarou, come _on._ ”

“You’d let me fuck you like this if I wanted to,” Koutarou says, and rolls his hips - Keiji’s breath hitches and he tugs at his hair again, so hard Koutarou rears back, laughing and moaning. “Fine, _fine_ , the bed, God, glad to see you’ve still got a stick up your ass -”

“Shut _up_ , fuck, do you ever stop running your mouth?” Keiji bitches between pulling at Koutarou’s clothes, and Koutarou stops speaking for a moment, focusing on getting Keiji’s shirt out of his pants and his pants off.

“You know me,” he says after a beat, voice rawer than he intends, “I never shut up.”

Keiji stops, his hands resting over Koutarou’s bare stomach, and looks up at him. He breathes out, an exhale Koutarou remembers well - a gathering breath, a pause to think. “I know.” He opens his mouth again, the bow of it softer than before, but instead of saying anything he closes the gap between them, kissing Koutarou slow and deep. “You couldn’t fuck me against the wall.”

“Oh, I _so_ could,” Koutarou says, kicking off his pants and coming close once they’re both naked, pressing up against him and kissing him again roughly. “I _definitely_ could.”

Keiji meets his eyes, the glint in his eyes a clear challenge, and Koutarou pulls back, rooting around in the nightstand’s drawers for lube. He pushes Keiji onto the bed and Keiji goes without comment, spreading his legs. His eyes are unreadable in the dim light of the room, and Koutarou won’t meet them, afraid of what he’ll find - he lowers his gaze, getting between Keiji’s legs and sucking a mark into his thigh. Keiji moans, low and familiar, and suddenly this is so close to what he wants, too close to what he can’t have, it’s all he can do to slick his fingers and press one in while wrapping his lips around Keiji’s cock.

“ _Fuck_ , Koutarou,” Keiji swears, harsh and surprised, and the name makes Koutarou take him deeper, finger joined by others as they spread him open. Keiji is noisy, tense, aroused sounds that he only lets slip when he’s drunk, and it makes Koutarou throb and burn, eager to press up and into him. He sucks again and pulls off to mouth at the head of Keiji’s cock, and Keiji’s hand comes down to fist in his hair, pulling him roughly away. Koutarou looks up and sees him, flushed and glassy-eyed, bitten mouth still forming a stern bow as he says, “Fuck me.”

“You’re so _bossy_ ,” Koutarou says, but he pulls his fingers out and stands up, yanking Keiji with him and swiftly pressing him against the naked wall of the hotel room.

“You’re too slow,” Keiji says in response, chin tilted to look up at him, and Koutarou kisses the words away, tangling his tongue with Keiji’s.

“Jump up and wrap your legs around me,” he murmurs, hands securely gripping Keiji’s hips. Keiji does as told, thighs tight on either side of Koutarou - he adjusts his grip, and then he’s pressing forward and he’s _in_ him, both of them groaning deeply.

“Now _move_ ,” Keiji demands, voice cracking, and Koutarou swallows and does, grasping his ass tightly and pulling back to push in again. Keiji is so _hot_ , his skin sticky with sweat, bangs plastered to his forehead as he leans back to pant. His throat is a long, beautiful line, already bruised by Koutarou’s mouth, and he leans in to bite at it again while he thrusts, enjoying Keiji’s twitches and moans. He closes his eyes, face buried in Keiji’s neck, feeling him tight around him, the scratches over his shoulders, and it feels _good_ , moving deeply in him, it all feels so fucking good. Keiji’s scent is everywhere, heavy and so familiar Koutarou could cry with it. The strain in his arms is secondary, unimportant, like the words tumbling out of his mouth between harsh pants, muffled against Keiji’s slick skin, “- so good - baby, Keiji, so fucking good - always -”

Keiji’s hand tangles in his hair, pressing him into his neck, Koutarou’s groan wet and garbled - Keiji’s cock is hard, rubbing between their stomachs with every thrust, and he’s moaning commands, telling Koutarou to go faster, _harder_ , _Koutarou_  -

“I’m - Keiji, Keiji,” he pants, pressed as close as he can be, “I’m - _Keiji_ -”

“Yes, _yes_ ,” Keiji moans, scratching roughly at his neck, and that’s all it takes to push him over the edge, pressing forward and staying there while he moans, as buried in Keiji as he can be. “Koutarou,” he pleads after a second, breathless, and Koutarou gets a shaking hand between their bodies, fingers barely wrapping around Keiji’s cock before he comes with a choked gasp, arching and writhing against the wall.

Koutarou wraps his arms around him again and lifts him, taking unsteady steps towards the bed and collapsing on it, curled over Keiji. He pulls out and presses close again immediately after, as close as he can get.

For a long moment, only three things exist: the heavy smell of sex in the air, the sound of soft panting, and the feeling of skin on skin everywhere their bodies meet. Koutarou feels heavy with emotion, like he’s making a deeper dent in the mattress than he should, like he’s weighing Keiji down where he’s on top of him.

At least this way he won’t leave, Koutarou thinks miserably.

Then Keiji speaks, so quietly it’s hard to hear him, head pressed against Koutarou’s hair. “This was a mistake,” he says, and Koutarou wishes he’d left.

He moves so he’s lying on his side, head resting on Keiji’s shoulder, tugging the duvet over them. He feels even heavier now, but there are gentle, familiar fingers in his hair. “Yeah,” he murmurs. He’s too tired to fight. “Probably.”

“Definitely,” Keiji says, just as softly.

Koutarou breathes out. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For everything. For whatever I did that was so bad you had to leave. I’m really sorry.” There’s a lump in his throat, and he’s closing his eyes hard, the sheen of them hidden behind thin eyelids.

Keiji is silent for a long, long time, and when he speaks, his voice breaks. “Oh, Koutarou.”

Koutarou sits up to watch him, and his mouth falls open at the sight - Keiji close to tears, his lips pressed together like Koutarou has only seen two, three times before. His own threaten to fall too, the sight confusingly painful, making his chest feel tight and raw. “No, don’t cry, please, I don’t want to see you cry.”

Keiji shakes his head and pulls him closer with trembling fingers, swallowing so hard it looks pained. “Don’t apologise, it’s not your fault. I told you that.”

“Then _why_ ,” bursts out of Koutarou, something like a sob before he takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. “Will you tell me why? You owe it to me, you know that.” He raises his gaze to meet theirs, and he feels like he’s shaking apart but he’s _determined_ , he needs to know. Keiji looks stricken, swallowing again and pulling away to sit up against the headboard.

Koutarou watches him move without saying anything, and Keiji twists his fingers like he used to do as a teenager, a nervous habit Koutarou had thought he’d left behind. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he says.

“Try. Keiji, you - I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried again and again, and I can’t try again, but I -” Koutarou swallows, keeping his voice from breaking. He sits up, cross-legged in front of him. “I _need_ to know.”

Keiji exhales and looks at him for a beat, then back down at his fingers. “I just couldn’t deal with it anymore.” He pauses, as if waiting for Koutarou to speak, to relieve him, but Koutarou stays quiet. “I know I’ve changed since high school, and you have too, and I couldn’t deal with.. staying like we were. You still treat me like I’m the same person.”

Suddenly Koutarou is the one who can’t look at him.

“And I just felt that you were..” Keiji exhales hard, and his voice turns harsh. “That you were so _dependent_. Everything revolved around you. I couldn’t deal with it anymore.”

Koutarou stares, and for a moment Keiji stares back - the fire in his eyes dies out as soon as it had appeared and he slumps, looking lifeless and beaten down. “I didn’t know you felt that way,” Koutarou finally gets out. His throat hurts, and his chest hurts, and his head hurts. He remembers a time when Keiji used to alleviate it, not make it worse.

Keiji shrugs and pulls at his fingers.

“So it was my fault.”

“ _No_ ,” Keiji says immediately, looking up. “No, I was the one who couldn’t deal with it anymore.”

“But that’s what you’re saying,” Koutarou says quickly, “that’s what you’re saying, is that you broke up with me because I was too much to deal with, too much to - you’re putting that on _me_? I never wanted everything to revolve around me, I’m not a teenager anymore!”

Keiji blinks, wet eyelashes clumping together.

“You _just said_  we’ve changed, and that _I_ was treating you like you hadn’t, and then you have the balls to tell me I’m _dependent_? What the fuck, Keiji?”

“Maybe,” Keiji says carefully, words slow, “I didn’t.. think about it like that.”

The anger in Koutarou’s chest is replacing the hurt, running up his spine and flaring in his throat. “You _didn’t think_ ,” he spits out. “I never asked you to take care of me, I never, ever asked you for anything like that, and you could’ve just _talked to me_ instead of throwing me out, instead of giving up on everything we had!”

“It wasn’t that easy!” Keiji shouts, voice raw. “I didn’t know how to!”

“Then _ask me_ ,” Koutarou yells back, and Keiji’s face crumples. “It’s not that hard, just fucking _ask me_! How am I supposed to know to treat you like an adult if you don’t treat me like one?”

“Stop,” Keiji says wetly, hiding his face in his hands, “stop, Koutarou, please.”

Koutarou stops, because he can’t not, because they’ve come too far for him to break Keiji down like this, even if he could. He used to think that’s what love was - giving someone the power to break you, and trusting that they wouldn’t.

He doesn’t think so anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He reaches out, hand uncertain, wrapping around Keiji’s wrist. Keiji doesn’t pull away. “Don’t cry.”

“I _hate_ crying,” Keiji sobs, and suddenly he’s pressing closer, burying his face in Koutarou’s shoulder. “You’re supposed to be the crier.”

Koutarou laughs, because he doesn’t know what else to do, stroking over his back. There’s a question looming, and asking it is terrifying, but leaving it behind is worse. “Keiji,” he says, and waits for Keiji to nod, to start breathing easier. “Do you think we can fix it?”

Silence. Then, quietly; “I don’t know.”

“I think so.”

“You think everything can be fixed.”

“Not everything. Just us.”

Keiji sits back, wiping at his face. “I miss you,” he says, almost stilted, trying to keep his emotion behind his teeth - but Koutarou always saw through that, and he still does.

“Yeah,” he says, blinking away tears. “I miss you too. That’s why I want to try again.”

Keiji shakes his head, bringing his knees up to hide his face in them. “It was so hard,” he mumbles. “And you just kept _coming over_ , Koutarou, how was I supposed to get over you like that?”

“I’m sorry.

Keiji takes a deep, shuddering breath and looks up at him, red-rimmed eyes meeting Koutarou’s own. “Why are you so quick to forgive me?”

Koutarou shrugs, a helpless roll of his shoulders. “I’d rather have you than be angry for losing you,” he says quietly. “And I know we can make it work.”

“You can’t _know_ something like that,” Keiji argues, and he looks so like himself that Koutarou can’t sit still, leans in and kisses the salt-water off his upper lip, licks his way into his mouth. They kiss for a long, unbroken moment, soft and familiar, and when they break apart, Keiji looks tired and longing. Koutarou knows his own face is a mirror of it, exhaustion and bone-deep want visible in the pull of his mouth, the sheen of his eyes.

“I know,” Koutarou says again. “We have to put some effort in, sure, but we can make it work. If we both think it's worth it." He pauses to take a breath, cupping along Keiji's cheekbone with a thumb. "And I know you don't want me to treat you like you're still in high school, but breaking us up over something like this and being too proud to ask for advice... that's definitely something you would've done in high school."

Keiji lets out a wet bark of laughter and Koutarou smiles, pleased with the reaction. "I'm sorry," Keiji says again, and his face falls, looking open and vulnerable. "I'm _sorry_ , Koutarou."

"I'm sorry, too," Koutarou says, leaning in to press their foreheads together. "Hey, calm down, I'm sorry too, okay? And I forgive you. And... we can fix all this. I promise. And we'll do it together, you don't have to do everything."

Keiji lets his knees fall, wrapping his arms around Koutarou and pressing close, breathing deeply. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I didn't think any of this would be this painful." He pulls back to look at him, eyes wide and serious. "I want to give this another chance."

Koutarou smiles, his heart pounding with disbelief. "Are you sure?"

Keiji nods. "Yes. I'm sorry, you're right. We could have fixed this. We can fix this." He swallows and tries to smile, small and uncertain. "If you still want me, even after all this."

There's a moment of silence, Koutarou finding his voice, before his smile widens, blinking hard. "Yes. Yes, _yes_ , I don't think I know how not to want you, Keiji, oh, _fuck_ -" he smothers curses against Keiji's mouth, kissing him hard and elated, pressing closer and rolling them around on the cheap hotel bed, laughing with incredulity. "We'll be good again, I promise, I've missed you like a _limb_..."

"I've missed you too," Keiji says from under him, making Koutarou pause and meet his gaze. His smile is surer this time, the curve of it making Koutarou's heart beat steady and true, settling in his chest for the first time in months. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For everything."

Koutarou smiles and kisses his nose, grinning wider at the face Keiji pulls. "You're welcome."

Keiji smiles back and then pauses. "If we're getting back together," he starts, "we need to discuss a lot of things - the apartment, and wherever you're living now, and our families, and what to tell our friends..."

Koutarou groans and settles down next to him, slinging an arm over his chest and pressing close. "Tomorrow," he declares. "We'll figure out all of that tomorrow. Together. For now, we're sleeping."

There's a beat before Keiji relaxes back into him. "Okay," he says, trying to sound resigned, but instead he just sounds pleased, fingers tangling with Koutarou's over his stomach. "Okay, let's sleep."

Love is a lot of things, Koutarou knows. It's about giving someone the power to break you; it's about effort, about waking up and making the same choice every day. It's about listening to someone fall asleep in a hotel room, lit only by the light of the street outside, and feeling like even this could be home, as long as he could hear that sound.

 

_art by[eicinic](http://eicinic.tumblr.com)_

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [tumblr](http://tivruskis.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/tivruskis), i'm tivruskis on both.


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